


We'll Watch the Death of the Sun

by justpastsaturn



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Novelization, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Spousal Death (mentioned), Suicidal Thoughts, my city now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:48:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28231203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justpastsaturn/pseuds/justpastsaturn
Summary: Crawling from the Vault, broken and desperate, he falls. Through enemies and with friends, he rises.
Relationships: Preston Garvey/Male Sole Survivor
Kudos: 8





	1. The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> I have not cared about canon a day in my life and if you do, this ain't it, bud.

Opening his eyes felt like missing a stair. The light was blinding, harsh. It pounded a headache through his veins, nausea in his stomach. He blinked it away, his eyes screaming as they adjusted. The ground felt unsteady and a sharp, acrid scent hung in the air. Slowly, the white dissipated as the area swam into focus. Blighted, broken trees hung their heads, dipping to the ground. Scattered garbage and bodies lay across the overgrown grass The world seemed to be filtered through a lens of muck and he rubbed his eyes a few times before he realized it wasn’t just him. 

Everything seemed to coalesce at once.

The last time he’d stood here, a mushroom cloud bloomed angrily on the horizon. People dropping in fear. 

Nora screaming.

Shaun crying.

_Gone, gone, they’re all gone._

His feet moved before he bid them to. His rabbit heart beating frantically in his chest. Not towards. Away. Far away. As far as his legs would take him. 

He stumbled on the path, roots overtaking the way. The sagging trees didn’t let up around him, reaching towards him as though they were to catch him. He did not slow, running, running, running. 

_Gone, gone, gone._

Memories swam across his mind. His mother’s home, filled with the scent of garlic cooking, his sisters squealing as they chased each other around the house. The fading scent of his father’s cologne still stuck to the ugly brown chair in the living room. His mom called, and they went to the kitchen…

_Gone, gone, gone._

The scene changed. An old box car on a train, moving across the country. His friends laughing quietly, passing a bottle of vodka across the circle, talking about what they’d do when they got to Boston. They were unwashed, but triumphant in not getting caught. Jones caught his eye as they passed the bottle and his heart beat so loud he was sure everyone could hear it…

_Gone, gone, gone._

Now, his wedding day. His palms sweating more than ever. Nora was gorgeous, her black hair styled into a chignon, covered only by her veil. When he was handed the ring, he nearly dropped it. The gentleness of her “I do,” cut short only by their kiss. The way the pastor cleared his throat.

“Mr. Irons, I haven’t said to kiss the bride…”

_Gone, gone, gone._

He was in Alaska, knocking back a beer with his buddies. It was a quiet night, and they didn’t get many of them. The machinery whirred around him, creating a white noise effect that faded behind the snow outside. Lieutenant Scott slapped his shoulder and he laughed…

_Gone, gone, gone._

The first time he saw Shaun, his little face scrunched and angry, crying out at the loss of warmth and comfort. He’d picked him up in his arms, cradling the baby and whispering to him. Telling him he was his daddy, that he’d always be there, he’d always protect him…

_Gone, gone, gone._

He didn’t know how long he ran, how far away he got. It wasn’t until he and night fell together, the ground meeting him on the way down. He curled into himself, a deep emptiness settling into his bones. Nothing mattered. It was all over. He should stay here, let the earth take him back. The night grew cold, harsh, but he didn’t shiver. He let himself fade, let the darkness win.

When he woke, he was moving and he didn’t know how. He sucked in a sharp breath, his muscles fighting against the movement. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” came a voice to his side. It was a man’s voice, rough, with a southern drawl. “You settle in, now. You’re in no place to be movin’ ‘round.”

He tried to open his eyes, but they snapped back shut. From his mouth came a groan that didn’t feel like his voice.

“Easy, now,” said the man, his voice calming, like trying to settle a horse. “You need some water?”

He nodded and felt strong hands help him into a sitting position. A bottle was brought to his lips. The water tasted wrong, sharp, but he drank it regardless. Slowly, he coaxed his eyes open. 

The day was bright, too bright. Around him the same kinds of trees creaked in a distant breeze, twirling them into a geriatric dance. He was in the back of a cart, being pulled by some odd, two-headed cow, and he had to double take when he saw it. There was a woman at the reigns, snapping the to keep the cows walking. He turned. The man in the back with him was covered, head to toe. A ushanka hat pulled over his hair, an orange bandana covering his mouth, and aviator sunglasses blocking his eyes. He offered the water again.

“Come on, drink up.”

“I’m okay,” he croaked. “Need to get home.” The fear was still there, the urge to get away, but it was no longer stronger than the driving force in his chest begging him to find Shaun. Find Shaun and get him back. He’d promised. He’d promised Nora. 

“Tell us where you need to go and we’ll get you there,” said the man. “In the meantime, you need to hydrate. You been through it, huh?”

He nodded and took the bottle. Another pull from the water and he felt himself stirring back to life. 

The man in the ushanka hat tilted his head. “You got a name there son?”

What had Nora called him? What had Lieutenant Scott called him? What had his friends called him? He couldn’t remember now. A different voice called from longer still. His mother. His father. Only at home, only in secret. Only to remember their language, heavy on their tongues.

“Artem,” he said. “My name is Artem.”


	2. Homecoming

Artem wasn’t sure how he managed to lead them back to Sanctuary Hills—his thoughts still racing too fast to keep up with—but somehow they made it. The man in the ushanka hat helped him from the cart and patted his back once Artem was standing on solid ground again. 

“Take care of yourself, brother,” he said. “Not everyone out here’s as nice as we are.”

Artem nodded. There was still a pit where his heart should be, but he hadn’t forgotten his manners. “I never got your names.”

“Don’t need them,” said the man. He might have smiled, but it was lost behind his bandana. “Just think of us as your personal guardian angels.”

With that, he hauled himself back into the cart. The woman sent a sidelong glance back at Artem, but said nothing. She pushed the two-headed cow—a brahmin, he had learned—into motion and Artem didn’t watch them go.

He couldn’t quite look around, his mind not able to justify this new place with the one he felt he’d left only a day ago. The houses were collapsing on themselves, crumbling and desolate. From a distance, he could hear movement in some. There was a scent in the air like burning rubber and something brighter, sharper. A headache threatened at his temples and he felt sluggish, weak. On legs that felt like jello, he walked forward.

His vision was still bleary, but he found his way to his home and the wind kicked out of his lungs. Placing a hand to its walls, he flashed back to the day they moved here. He’d just gotten back after his stint in Anchorage, coming home with injuries that went deeper than the burn on his head and the broken ribs. Nora picked the place. He hadn’t been in a place to house hunt. When he pulled up, broken in more ways than one, he’d taken his first deep breath in months. Home. It was a simple word, but sweet on his tongue. 

Now it was broken, singed at the edges, but somehow still standing. He tried to step forward, to go inside, but his feet froze to the ground. With a shuddering breath, he leaned his head on the wood. 

He didn’t know how long he stayed there, only broken from his place by a sharp gasp.

“As I live and breathe! It’s you, it’s really you!” 

Artem jolted, coming back to himself. “Codsworth?”

“Mr. Irons!” Codsworth was dinged up, damaged, but Artem didn’t care. He was alive—if robots even truly lived—and relief washed down him at seeing anything familiar. Shambling forward, he stopped himself from hugging the Mr. Handy. He didn’t know if comfort was in the robot’s programming.

“Codsworth, what happened? To everything, the world?”

“The world, sir?” Codsworth asked. “Well, besides our geraniums still being the envy of Sanctuary Hills, I’m afraid things have been dreadfully dull around here. Things will be so much more exciting with you and the missus back. Where is your better half, by the by?”

Artem stuttered. A pain so sharp he might as well have taken a bullet pierced through him. “They… They killed her. God, they really killed her.”

He sank down, holding his head between his knees, taking in breath as though he’d been drowning. Codsworth hovered, silent for a moment.

“Sir… These things you’re saying… these terrible things. I believe you need a distraction.”

Artem screwed his eyes shut, tight. “Codsworth…”

“Yes! A distraction to calm this dire mood. It’s been ages since we’ve had a proper family activity. Checkers. Or perhaps charades. Shaun does so love that game. Is the lad… with you?”

“Codsworth,” Artem said, getting to his feet, placing his hands on Codsworth’s metal dome. “Listen to me carefully. Have you seen him? Have you seen Shaun?”

“Why, mum had him last, remember? Perhaps she’s gone to the Parker residence to arrange a play-date? I’m sure he’ll be back with him momentarily.” 

Artem felt something in him crack. He flinched back as though he’d been burned. “No. Codsworth. He’s gone, goddamn it! Someone took him! Someone stole my son!”

“Hmm,” said Codsworth. “It’s worse than I thought. You’re suffering from hunger-induced paranoia. Not eating properly for two-hundred years will do that, I’m afraid.”

Artem stopped breathing. “Two-hundred years? What? Are you…”

“A bit over two-hundred and ten actually, sir. Give or take a little for the Earth’s rotation and some minor dings to the ole’ chronometer.”

“It can’t be,” Artem said. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re two centuries late for dinner! Perhaps I can whip you up a snack?”

“Codsworth, what’s wrong with you?” 

“Whatever do you mean, sir?”

“You’re acting like everything’s fine, and it’s not,” Artem breathed. He was too tired to be angry, but he couldn’t deal with the dissonance between what he saw and what Codsworth said. “There’s no charades, there’s no play-date. There’s barely a house! Stop it!”

“I… I…” stammered Codsworth, “Oh, sir, you’re right. It’s been just horrible! Two centuries with no one to talk to! No one to serve! I spent the first ten years trying to keep the floors waxed… but nothing gets out nuclear fallout from vinyl wood! Nothing! And don’t get me started on the futility of dusting a collapsed house. And the car! The car! How do you polish rust?”

Artem almost regretted his outburst. He rubbed at his temples. “Stay with me, buddy. What do you know?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know anything, sir,” Codsworth said, hanging his arms. “The bombs came and all of you left in such a hurry. I thought for certain you and your family were dead.”

Maybe it would have been better if they had. Artem shook the thought from his head. He glanced around, trying to take in all he could. There was no way to know if anyone came through here, if anyone left tracks. Everything was in such disarray, it was impossible to tell what was normal.

“Codsworth, can you help me look for Shaun? See if he’s around the neighborhood?”

“Of course, sir! Enough of feeling sorry for myself. Let us take a look.” Codsworth turned and Artem followed. They trudged through the ground, heavy with weeds and tall grasses. It felt odd to enter his neighbor’s homes uninvited, but Artem reasoned they didn’t care anymore. The images from the Vault flashed before his eyes. Bodies. So many frozen bodies. 

He didn’t have time to think about it. Once they made it past the threshold, something black shot out at him and Artem only dodged it by a hair, falling back onto his ass. 

“Oh, pesky mosquitoes,” Codsworth called. He shot forward and it was only then that Artem saw the bug. It was an ugly, bloated thing, and it shot another stinger out. No, Artem realized with a gag. Not a stinger. A larva. 

He stumbled back as Codsworth cut the fly in half. He wished he’d kept hold of the pistol he’d found in the Vault, having dropped it somewhere in his frantic running. Codsworth turned down the hall, flames erupting from his arm and Artem heard another fly drop from the air. 

“Not in here, sir,” Codsworth said, returning. “Perhaps the next house?”

“What—What are those things?”

“Oh, like I said.” Codsworth sniffed. “Mosquitoes.”

Artem shook his head, hard. “Codsworth, I need you to do something for me. Go into the house and see if they have anything I can use as a weapon. Anything.”

“Understood, sir!”

Codsworth disappeared into the house.

“And a pack of smokes!”

“Yes, sir!”

Artem curled into himself. What was this new world? Giant roaches. Giant flies. The haze hung just above the ground and he coughed. The nausea was getting worse, his head pounding. He was barely qualified for combat in good conditions. He was an army mechanic. The most action he’d ever seen was when his base had been attacked and that ended with his discharge. His hands had never been meant for holding a gun. More for holding a wrench.

Besides that, he’d never been a fan of bugs.

When Codsworth returned with a 10mm pistol, a box of ammo, and a pack of cigarettes, Artem reached for the cigarettes first. He placed one between his lips and lit the end off of Codsworth’s still hot flamer, taking the smoke deep into his lungs and exhaling slowly. He smoked it down to the filter, until his hands stopped shaking. Stubbing it out, he rose, kicking the butt into the dirt.

“Okay,” he said, loading his gun. “Let’s go.”

When they entered the next house, Artem knew to duck as the fly shot at him. He flicked off the safety and raised his gun, taking aim before the fly could shoot again. The bullet flew true, exploding the bug into a million pieces as Codsworth took care of the others. Once the house was clear, Artem sighed.

“Nothing here, either.”

“Chin up, sir, there’s plenty more to cover.”

Artem shook his head. “No, he’s not here. No one’s here.”

“Sir…”

“It’s okay, Codsworth. You did your best.” Artem turned, looking across the neighborhood that once held his family, his friends. “There’s something I need to do, anyway.”

Burying the bodies took longer than it should have. Through the aching and nausea, Artem pulled each one from the Vault, placing them in graves that were far from six feet deep, but as deep as he could manage. There were no headstones, but he said their names as he buried each one, letting his sorrow grow with every story he remembered within their brief time together. 

When he’d buried his neighbors, he returned to Nora, opening the hatch to the cryo pod. Gently, so gently, he picked her up, like he’d done when they’d first married and he’d carried her through the threshold. Holding her close, he trudged back to Sanctuary Hills, not meeting Codsworth’s optic sensors as he carried her to the base of the great tree in the middle of the cul de sac. 

He laid her in her grave, brushing her long black hair from her face. No tears fell. He was empty, so horribly empty. Shovel full by shovel full, he covered her in dirt until the hole was filled. 

He stayed there a long time, his hand on the raised ground, breathing. He didn’t hear Codsworth come up behind him until he cleared his nonexistent throat.

“Um, sir?”

“What is it Codsworth,” Artem said, softly.

“While you were… busy, I’d forgotten something. I found this holotape. I believe the missus was going to give it to you. As a surprise. But then, well, everything… happened.”

Artem reached out, taking the holotape. “Thank you, Codsworth.”

Codsworth didn’t say another word, floating off. Artem laid down next to his wife’s grave. He popped the holotape into his Pipboy, closing it with a final click. Nora’s voice stirred to life, small and tinny. He could hear Shaun in the background, cooing as the feedback played. He listened to it once, then played it again, and again, and again, falling asleep to the sound of Nora’s laughter and Shaun’s babbling.

_Hi, Honey. Listen. I don’t think Shaun and I need to tell you how great of a father you are, but we’re going to do it anyway. You are kind, and loving, and funny. That’s right. And patient. So patient. Patience of a saint my mother used to say. Look, with Shaun and us being at home together, it’s been an amazing year. But even so, I know our best days are yet to come. There will be changes, I’m sure. Things we’ll need to adjust to. You’ll rejoin the civilian workforce, I’ll shake off my law degree. But everything we do, no matter how hard, we do it for our family. Now say goodbye, Shaun. Bye bye? Say bye bye?_

_Bye honey, we love you._


	3. The First Step

Artem didn’t know how long he stayed in Sanctuary Hills, living on nothing but the water and food Codsworth forced down his throat. The days passed by, filtered between what Artem was now realizing was radiation sickness and the absolute grief that crippled him. He didn’t know what to do, where to go. Didn’t know where to even start looking. Codsworth suggested Concord, but Artem couldn’t think far enough out to remember how to get there. He knew it was close, within walking distance, but his brain wouldn’t create thought outside of eat food, drink water, piss if you gotta. His hair was grown out and tangled. His beard grew in itchy and thick. His Pipboy stated that it was well into December, nearly January and he wasn’t sure where the time had gone. The air hung damp and heavy during the day, but turned biting in the night. Most of the time, Artem didn’t sleep. 

He wandered the grounds of Sanctuary Hills, his hand half in a box of Sugar Bombs, whistling to himself. The loneliness was getting to him. Although Codsworth did his best to cheer him up with jokes and anecdotes of their former life, Artem felt so disconnected from it all. He didn’t want to think about the good times. He didn’t know what he wanted outside of finding Shaun. 

The pilfered 10mm pistol hung heavy on his hip. It was falling apart and no amount of weapons training from basic was pulling it back together. Artem hoped nothing more would come through the neighborhood. Lord knew he’d be in trouble if it jammed. 

During the day, he took to scavenging through his old neighbors’ houses, long ago abandoning any guilt in doing so. He’d nearly blown his arm off trying to pick the lock on a safe, not noticing the mine until it’d started beeping. Disarming it had been second nature, in an odd way. He’d always been good with his hands, always knew how to get things working—or not working—to suit his needs. 

One of the first things he stole was a new set of clothes. The Vault suit was itchy and horribly cold. Plus, he’d thought with a sardonic smile, blue had never been his color. He threw the suit across his old ruined couch and left it there, trading it for a pair of slacks and a shirt with suspenders. The clothes barely fit, a little too tight across his belly, and maybe two-hundred years ago that may have bothered him, but now it was merely another small cut. 

At night he sat on his porch, his back to the bannister as he leaned next to his rusted out car and drank from the nightly bottle of water Codsworth handed him. The robot was nearby, turning this way and that in a way that made Artem think he was trying to say something. He sighed and closed his eyes.

“What’s on your mind, Codsworth?” The words cut through his throat. It was the first thing he’d said in days.

“Oh? Oh, nothing, sir.”

“Doesn’t seem like nothing.”

“It’s just that,” Codsworth started, twisting his metal claws in a way that reminded Artem of hand-wringing. “I worry about young Shaun. Are you… Are you going after him?”

Artem took a pull from his water, wishing it was something with a kick. The thought should have been alarming. He hadn’t wanted a drink since he’d gotten sober. No words came. He didn’t know what he was supposed to say. The emotion had drained from him, replaced with nothing but a gnawing emptiness. He wanted to go after him. He couldn’t convince himself to leave his stolen sleeping bag most days. 

Mostly he wished he’d died in the bombs.

“Yes,” he said finally. “I’m going after him.”

“You’re going to Concord then?”

The mention of the town brought back the same sinking feeling. There seemed so many steps between being here and getting there. So many unknowns. Artem grit his teeth. It wasn’t fair to Shaun. He needed his dad. He needed Artem to be brave.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m heading out tomorrow. First thing.”

“Oh, sir. That’s the best news I’ve gotten in two-hundred years.”

Artem opened his eyes, looking to the setting sun. “We’re gonna get him back, Codsworth.”

The next morning opened with heavy rain and Artem nearly went back on his word and put off Concord for another day. The ground squelched under his feet as he trudged through his front lawn, his boots already heavy with mud. He raised a hand to Codsworth on his way out, facing the Old North Bridge, and took in a deep breath. There was no room for fear, he told himself. Move forward.

The bridge creaked under his feet and he hoped it was still sturdy enough to carry his weight. A chunk had already collapsed and fallen into the water below. He watched his feet as he walked, the water moving below in a steady flow. He imagined falling, being taken away by the stream. The thought brought a wave of some emotion to his chest and he looked up.

He didn’t notice the body across the bridge until he nearly tripped over it. It was a man in a leather outfit beside what appeared to be a hairless dog, a tire iron sticking out of its body. Artem shivered. As far as omens went, this was not a good one. He started to walk on, but turned back last moment and took the tire iron from the dog. It pulled free with a wet noise and Artem swung it through the air once. It may come in handy, he thought, if his gun failed him.

As he walked, he remembered. The way the trees had once been full of orange and brown leaves, warm against the October sky. There was a truck stop just past here where he’d often stopped for a Nuka and smokes. Nora had been nagging him to quit, but it seemed unlikely now. He wondered if the old place still stood, and he took the turn into what was once the parking lot. 

Ahead of him the trademark red rocket still stood high over the truck stop. Cars in all manner of decay lined the lot, trash and debris scattered across them. The sign out front still showed coolant prices, though most of the lettering had fallen off, and a breeze cut through as Artem approached. He walked forward, as though in a trance, wondering if he went inside, there would still be people working the front. 

A sharp bark from his left brought him back to reality. He startled, dropping his tire iron and reaching for his gun, but the dog that came into view was not like the mangy, hairless thing he’d seen dead next to the body outside of Sanctuary. It was a German Shepherd, its eyes bright and its tongue lolling. It barked again, tilting its head.

“Hey, buddy,” Artem called, crouching down and extending his hand. “Where’d you come from?”

The dog crept forward, close enough Artem could see it was a boy. He rubbed his fingers together, making kissing noises as the dog slowly made his way to him. Artem thought back to his own dog, long lost to time. He’d never been a dog person. The dog was mostly Nora’s. Now, he wanted desperately to pet him. To feel some semblance of normalcy. 

The dog pressed his cold nose to Artem’s hand, sniffing at him. Whatever he smelled made him relax his haunches and push forward to lick at Artem’s hands.

“You got an owner?” he asked the dog. The dog tilted his head again. He barked, turning away and dropping low, growling deep in his throat. “What is it, buddy?”

A grumbling from below startled Artem to his feet. He stumbled back as monsters exploded from the earth. No. Not monsters. They were mole rats, giant, growling mole rats. Artem shuffled back, reaching for his tire iron.

The mole rats pounced, catching his arm in their horrible teeth. He cried out and the dog went to action, grabbing the mole rat by its neck and shaking it off of him. Blood spurted from the wound, but adrenaline drove him forward to the iron. He grabbed it as another mole rat launched at him. He swung, catching the creature in the jaw with a sharp  _ smack _ . Artem felt the bone give as he smashed it again, making sure it was good and truly dead. 

Four more moles came from the ground, gnashing their teeth as Artem turned. The dog came up to his side, his ears pressed back onto his skull, teeth bared. There was only a second’s standoff before they moved, simultaneously, at one another. The dog hit one head on, tumbling forward with the momentum. Artem crushed the skull of another, feeling a sick satisfaction in the way it crunched under his iron. The remaining two fled underground, but Artem could hear them just below their feet. 

“Eyes up!” he told the dog.

The mole rats burst through the ground, only a foot away from where Artem stood. He swung again, catching one in midair and using the arc of his swing to bring down the second. He hit it again, and again, taking out all of his fear, his anger, until the mole rat was nothing more than jelly on the ground. He breathed hard, his vision clearing. His arm pounded with pain, and he dropped his iron long enough to roll up his sleeve to see the damage.

“Fuck,” he said. “That’s not good.” A deep puncture wound cut through his bicep, spilling blood onto the dirt. He was halfway through processing how he was to staunch the bleeding, (would it be worth it to rip the shirt?) when a bark from his side brought his attention to the coolant pumps. The dog barked again, nudging his nose against a white first aid box on the ground. Artem raised an eyebrow and stumbled over. He opened the box and within was a stimpack, an empty syringe, and a bottle of pills labeled “Rad-X.” He pocketed the pills, and injected the stimpack into his arm, the way the army medics had taught him. 

He watched the skin knit back together as the pain ebbed. He shook his head. Still didn’t understand how that worked. 

“Good boy,” Artem told the dog. He wagged his tail. Artem laughed. “Alright then, let’s stick together.”

The dog barked happily, heeling at his side. Absently, as he left the truck stop, Artem wondered who had trained the dog for him to be so obedient. He supposed it didn’t matter. It made him feel better to have him at his side, so as he trudged forward into the pouring rain. He faced Concord with something like courage. 


	4. Concord

The dog took point as they entered Concord, Artem’s heart hammering hard in his chest. He’d been here so many times before, but something about leaving Sanctuary Hills had his stomach tied in knots. It had been a refuge over the past few months, a security blanket in this new world. Now, leaving it had him nervous, sweating. They’d only encountered one roadblock on the way in: a large mosquito looking bug that was feasting on a dead brahmin on the road. Artem hadn’t had time to move before the dog took it down. He took a small comfort in that. He may have a fear of bugs, but the dog certainly didn’t.

They wandered through the streets, passing boarded up houses and half collapsed buildings. Rain still pelted the road, lending percussion to the otherwise quiet day. As they continued forward, Artem stopped, tilting his head up. There was something else in the air, something sharper than the sounds of falling raindrops.

Gunshots.

Artem took a step back, trying to locate where the sound was coming from. Codsworth had said he’d only experienced mild harassment from the people of Concord. Artem hadn’t expected gunfire. As he moved back, the dog moved forward, turning only to nip at his hands and push forward once more.

“Oh no,” Artem said. “We want to avoid that.”

The dog yipped, whined, and moved towards the sound, his tail tucked. 

“No. Come on.”

The dog whined again, then shot forward. Artem only had enough time to look up before his feet were moving of their own accord, darting behind the corner of a building. About twenty feet in front of them was a group of people dressed in rags and leather.

And they were firing at him. 

Artem cursed, readying his pistol. “Should have just left the dog alone, but no.”

He turned from his shelter and returned fire. Arms shaking, his aim was off, the bullet flying past the closest man by a long shot. The dog shot off, running up on the man and going for his throat. Blood gushed from the wound, coating the dog’s muzzle, and Artem only had enough time to wince and duck back behind the building before the rest resumed fire.

He knew he couldn’t hide forever. Couldn’t let the dog take the heat. He closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath, before whispering a prayer to a god he didn’t know he believed in, and turned from the building.

A woman rushed him, holding a bat above her head. She shouted, a feral, wild sound, and Artem took aim. He held steady, not allowing himself to breathe. 

And then he fired.

The shot hit true, catching the woman in the head, blowing out blood and brain matter behind her. She dropped to the ground without a sound and Artem didn’t have time to watch her fall. A bullet whizzed past his head, so close he could feel the air move, and he shifted his stance, aiming at the closest man. 

He fired, catching the man in the chest. He staggered, then went down. Artem turned his sights in time to see another man shake off the dog and take aim. Without thinking, without feeling, Artem fired, the bullet hitting its mark before the man had time to fully raise his weapon. 

Silence fell over the street and Artem took in a deep breath. Adrenaline still pumped through his veins, begging him to fight or flee, but he held it down. On shaky legs, he moved forward, coming up to the body of the woman in front of him. 

She was rough, with thin, brown hair and wide, sightless eyes. Bile rose at the back of Artem’s throat. He’d killed her. Without a thought, he’d killed her. Vision from Anchorage assaulted him, remembering the cold, the way the alarm sirens blared. How he’d fumbled with his gun, nearly dropping it as the enemy swarmed. The dead eyes of the first man he killed. The screams of his fellow men.

He didn’t see the baseball bat aimed at his head until it was nearly too late. Burst from his past, he dropped to the ground, avoiding the arc of the bat by a hair. 

“Think you’re tough shit, do ya?” the man screamed, and Artem fell onto his back, aiming the gun up. He pulled the trigger.

The gun clicked, but did not fire.

The man above him laughed, arching his bat up. “Looks like you ran outta luck, buddy.”

Artem didn’t have time to close his eyes. The last thought that ran through his head was for Shaun. He hoped wherever he was, he was safe.

A mechanical sound broke his prayers. A streak of red followed, blasting the man with the bat, and he staggered, turning to ash in front of Artem’s eyes.

“Hey!” came a voice. “Hey over here!” 

Artem blinked rapidly, staggering to his feet. He looked around, not able to pinpoint where the voice came from. The dog was at his side now, his face and shoulders coated in blood. 

“Up here!” came the voice again. “On the balcony!”

Balcony? Artem stumbled down the road, coming up to the base of the old museum. He looked up. Above him, on the balcony was a man, dressed like he’d come from the past. He waved his hand above his head, catching Artem’s eye. “I’ve got a group of settlers inside! The Raiders are almost through the door! Grab that Laser Musket and help us! Please!”

Artem’s head spun. Laser Musket? Raiders? He glanced down at where the man had pointed. Just before the door of the museum was a corpse in a flannel shirt. Beside him was a sort of rifle, though the build of it was odd, rickety. Artem bent over, picking up the rifle—Laser Musket?—and weighed it in his hands. There was a crank to the side and Artem turned it, watching as the red sparked though it, lighting his face against the sunless day. Beside the man was a pile of yellow cells, what Artem assumed was the ammunition, so he gathered them up. With one more glance up at the balcony and a nod to the dog, he shouldered open the door to the museum.

He wasn’t sure what he was getting into, but he’d never turned down anyone that needed him.

Fire erupted once he was through the door and he raised his weapon without thinking. Despite the fear that curled deep in his belly, there was something simple about this. Point gun. Shoot enemy. He found his breath came evenly as he took aim, firing, cranking, firing, as he mowed down the Raiders where they stood. The scent of burning flesh filled the museum as he busted through, the Raiders melting at the contact of the Laser Musket. Artem fought back a gag as he filed up the stairs, shaking their ashes off his once shiny shoes. 

What he couldn’t shoot, the dog took care of. He was now completely covered in blood and carnage, stained red as he bolted from one Raider to another. Artem was distinctly glad the dog was on his side. 

The last body dropped, sizzling out to dust and Artem held his breath as he passed through the cloud to the door where the man from the balcony was. He knocked on the door.

“Hey,” he called. “It’s safe now. Can I come in?”

There was a silence beyond the door, but slowly it opened. Artem pushed in, glancing around the room. There were five people within, all visibly shaken except the man from the balcony, who stood with a steel to his spine Artem had seen before in Anchorage. 

“Man, I don’t know who you are,” said the man, “but your timing’s impeccable.” He shifted his weapon—a Laser Musket identical to the one Artem held—to his other hand and extended the other. “Preston Garvey: Commonwealth Minutemen. And you are?”

Artem mirrored him, shifting his Laser Musket to his other hand and clasping the other with Preston’s. “Artem Irons. Did you say Minutemen? Am I traveling back in time now?”

“You must not be from around here,” Preston said. “We’re something of a militia. ‘Protect the people at a minute’s notice.’ That was the idea, at least.”

He looked tired. Artem could feel it radiating off him. 

“Things kind of fell apart though,” he continued.

Artem nodded. He could relate to that too. “Who are these people? What happened?”

“They’re just folks trying to find a new home. A fresh start. I’ve been with them since Quincy. Lexington looked good for a while until the Ghouls drove us out of there—”

“Wait,” Artem said, holding up a hand. His headache was returning. “Ghouls? What are Ghouls?”

“Wow, you’re really  _ not _ from around here,” Preston said. “Ghouls are irradiated people. Most are like you and me. They look real messed up and live a long time, but they’re still just… people. The ones I’m talking about are different. The radiation’s rotted their brains, made them feral—”

“Okay, you know what? I’m sorry I asked.”

“Look, what I’m trying to say is, things are… tough for us right now. A month ago, there were twenty of us. Yesterday there were eight. Now we’re five. It’s just me, the Longs—Marcy and Jun—Mama Murphy there on the couch, and here’s Sturges.”

The greaser looking man looked up from a glowing terminal. “Hey.”

Artem nodded at him.

“Anyway, we figured Concord would be a safe place to settle. Those Raiders proved us wrong.”

“You must have some kind of escape plan?”

“Well,” Preston started. “We do have one idea.”

Artem shifted his weight. “Let’s hear it.”

“Sturges? Tell him.”

Sturges turned to Artem, leaning on the back of his chair. “There’s a crashed vertibird up on the roof. Old school. Pre-War. Might’ve seen it.”

Artem hadn’t, but he nodded regardless.

“Well, looks like one of its passengers left behind a seriously sweet goody,” Sturges went on, his voice almost dreamy. “We’re talking a full suit of cherry T-45 Power Armor. Military issue.”

Artem thought back to the winters of Anchorage. The lines of half destroyed Power Armor that made up the majority of his work. He chuckled. “I like it.”

“I thought you might,” Sturges laughed. “Protection with an added bonus. Get the suit, you can rip the minigun right off the veritbird. Do that, and those raiders get an express ticket to Hell. You dig?”

“I dig,” Artem said. “I’m feeling like there’s a ‘but’ in this sentence, though.”

“But,” Sturges supplied, “the suit’s out of juice. Probably been dry for a hundred years. It can be powered up again, but we’re a bit stuck…”

“How can I help?” The words were leaving his mouth before he knew what he was saying. It didn’t matter what they wanted of him. He didn’t know what world he was living in now, but it wouldn’t be one where he left them to die.

“What you’ll need is an old, pre-war F.C. A standardized Fusion Core—”

“I know what an F.C. is,” Artem interjected. “Where can I get one?”

“That’s the trouble. We can’t get to the damn thing,” Sturges said. “It’s down in the basement, locked behind a security gate.” He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Look. I fix things. I tinker. Bypassing security ain’t exactly my forte.”

“I’ll give it my best shot,” Artem said. 

“Maybe our luck’s turning around,” Preston said, though more to himself. “Once you jack the Core into the Power Armor and grab that minigun, those Raiders’ll know they picked the wrong fight. Good luck.”

It sounded like a dismissal, so Artem nodded, dropping his newly acquired Laser Musket against the desk Sturges sat at. He whistled to the dog to come and he perked his ears, sitting by Mama Murphy, still covered in blood. The old woman raised her head, catching Artem’s stare. Her eyes were glassy, but once they were set upon him, she smiled. 

“Dogmeat sure did find us some help,” she said, her voice scratchy. “Just look at ya.”

“So he’s your dog?”

“Ah, he ain’t my dog. No sir. Dogmeat, he’s what you’d call his own man.”

Artem raised an eyebrow. He’d known plenty of people before the bombs that talked about their dogs like they were people, but it never stopped irritating him. He opened his mouth to talk himself out of the conversation, but Mama Murphy went on.

“You can’t own a free spirit like that. But he chooses his friends and sticks by ‘em. He’ll stick by you now. I saw it.”

“Saw it?” Artem unconsciously took a step back. Maybe he should have just left Mama Murphy alone with Dogmeat.

“It’s the chems, kid. Give ol’ Mama Murphy the Sight. Been that way as long as I can remember.”

Artem didn’t know what chems were, but he nodded anyway. “Well, I’ve got to go…”

“Be careful. There’s something coming,” Mama Murphy said, sinking back into the couch. “Drawn by the noise and the chaos. And it is… angry.”

“I’ll be careful,” Artem said, inching away. He shot a glance at Marcy and Jun who both seemed either used to Mama Murphy’s rambling, or too tied up in their own problems to notice him. He then turned his back and left the room, following the steps back down to the basement floor, Dogmeat at his heels. 

Taking one look at the security terminal told him he was out of his depth, but the lock on the door was easy enough to pick. His days wandering Sanctuary Hills had seen him collecting a small pocketful of bobby pins, and his misspent youth granted him skills that would have been—and were—looked down upon in his own time. As the door swang free, he was glad the skill came in handy somewhere.

The fusion core was hot in his hand as he made his way back up the stairs, past the room where the settlers and Preston stood. They eyed him wearily as he passed. Somewhere in the back of his head, Artem realized how ludicrous this all was. He was two-hundred years in the future, after a nuclear apocalypse, about to jump into a Power Armor he was only mildly qualified to use, to save the lives of people he didn’t even know. If not for the severity of the situation, he would have laughed.

The Power Armor itself was just as he remembered from the war, if not a little worse for wear. He pushed the fusion core into the back, hearing the machinery stir to life. Beyond the sound of the Power Armor, he heard the taunting calls of the Raiders below. A simmering anger spread through him at the sound. He’d never had much patience for bullies. With a final breath, he entered the Power Armor, letting the metal swallow him as the rain beat down. 

If he survived this, he thought, it’d be a hell of a story.

The minigun came free with a metallic squeal and with it in hand, Artem looked down. There was a group of Raiders, perhaps ten or so, waiting below, jeering as he stood. He sent one look behind him at Dogmeat.

“Stay here and be a good boy.”

If the dog understood, he didn’t stay to find out. He took a step off the building and let gravity pull him down to the Raiders.

They didn’t even have time to scream as Artem mowed them down, the minigun growing hot at the tip. Behind him, he heard the discharge of Preston’s Laser Musket, picking off the Raiders that avoided the spray before they could charge Artem. The few shots that got through glanced off the Power Armor like angry bees. 

When the last of the Raiders fell, so did silence over Concord. Artem glanced around, his vision filtered through the Power Armor. Something was off. He wasn’t sure what, but something was definitely off. 

From down the street, he heard a clatter, then the growl of something straight from a nightmare.

Artem was firing before he even got a good look at the creature. Reptilian and angry, with sharp claws and long teeth. It charged him, barely feeling the bullets as they sank into its hide. Artem sprinted backwards as the bullets flew, trying to keep out of range of those terrible claws, but for its size, the creature was horribly fast, and Artem was not used to moving quickly in Power Armor. The most use he’d ever seen behind the wheel of one was to move it to his station to be fixed. With a vicious swipe, the creature knocked the minigun from his hands, launching it down the street of Concord. 

It reared, letting out a bellow before turning back on Artem. He had enough time to put his arms in front of his face, protecting his head, before the monster turned on him, slashing at him and sending him skidding across the road. 

He laid there, his head spinning. He didn’t know which way was up, couldn’t figure it out before the creature was on top of him. It raised a claw and Artem closed his eyes, not able to face the end.

A shot rang out. The weight of the creature disappeared, and Artem opened his eyes.

The creature’s head was half fried off and its body fell off to the side, hitting the ground hard. Artem stared at it, before looking back up to the balcony in time to see Preston raise a hand.

“You alright?” he called. 

Artem didn’t know how to answer that. “Well,” he called back. “I’m definitely alive.”

“Good to hear!” There was almost a laugh in Preston’s voice. Something triumphant. “Let’s regroup inside.”

Artem wanted to argue that he was perfectly fine staying where he was until things made sense again, but he didn’t know when that was going to be and the armor was digging into his side. With no small effort, he hefted himself off the ground, peeling himself out of the Power Armor before rejoining the group inside of the walls of the museum.

Preston was helping Mama Murphy down the stairs when he entered. His voice was low, asking her if she was okay.

“I’m fine, Preston. Quit fussin’.”

Preston glanced up at Artem as he came up to them. “That was a pretty amazing display,” he said. “I’m just glad you’re on our side.”

He handed over Artem’s Laser Musket, catching his eye. “Though, you took a bit of a hit there. You sure you’re okay?”

Artem couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled from his lips. “I don’t know if I’d call anything that’s happened in the past few months ‘okay,’ but I’m still standing.”

“I can definitely relate,” Preston said with a wry smile. “Listen, when we first met, you asked about the Minutemen. One thing you need to know, we help out our friends. Here. For everything you’ve done, thank you.”

He handed over some ammunition and a small bag of bottle caps. Artem smiled tightly, He didn’t know what he was supposed to do with roughly a hundred bottle caps, but it seemed rude to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “I didn’t do it for a reward, though. You guys were in trouble. I’m just happy I could help.”

“Well, if you’re willing to help a little more, you should come with us to Sanctuary,” Preston said. “I could use someone like you.”

“Sanctuary?” Artem asked. “As in Sanctuary Hills?”

Preston shrugged. “I’m not sure. Mama Murphy saw it. We figure it’s as good a shot as anything. You familiar with it?”

The air seemed to freeze in Artem’s lungs. “Yeah, I’m familiar.”

“That’s great. You and I can take point, then. You in?”

He didn’t know how to tell Preston that that place was no home. Not any longer. The lines etched onto Marcy and Jun’s faces stopped any thoughts about telling them so. They were all in need of somewhere. Maybe it could be a respite for them, as it’d been for him the last few months.

“I’m in, Mr. Garvey.”

They shook hands and Artem was struck by how normal it felt. How out of place. He couldn’t say he minded. Preston’s skin was warm against his, his hands calloused but gentle.

“Alright folks. Thanks to our friend here, it’s safe to move out. Let’s get a move on, before it gets dark.”

Artem watched them file out, Marcy helping Jun to his feet. She shot him a tired glare, but Artem couldn’t feel upset about it. Was too tired to. Once they were all out the door, he hesitated for a moment, glancing across the ash of the Raiders bodies spread across the museum. Dogmeat pressed his nose to his hand, and Artem took a deep breath.

Still no Shaun. He didn’t know how much more searching he had left in him, if this was the way it was going to go. 

He shook the thought from his head. Back to Sanctuary. Maybe he could talk more to Preston about it, once they were settled in.

He pushed the door open with his shoulder and joined the group, pulling on the Power Armor before taking point next to Preston. With Concord growing cold at their backs, they faced towards Sanctuary, towards a new start, towards a new future.


End file.
